


The Gold Miners' Rebellion, And Other Such Romantic Nonsense

by WolfieOnAO3



Series: The Brewer's Dictionary of Short Stories [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes (Radio 1989-2010 Coules), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD - Freeform, Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, Australia, Domestic, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, The Boscombe Valley Mystery, Watson POV, based on book canon, brewer's dictionary of phrase and fable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: 'Highway robbers around the Australian goldmines? You’ll find, my dear Watson, that such examples of mankind are ten-a-penny in the colonies. Very rarely do such cases offer anything of interest. Remarkable?' Holmes barked a cynical laugh. 'No. I should think not.’For the Brewer's prompt:The Eureaka Stockade
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Brewer's Dictionary of Short Stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691002
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	The Gold Miners' Rebellion, And Other Such Romantic Nonsense

**Author's Note:**

> The Eureaka Stockade  
>  _A fortified stockade erected by the diggers in the Ballarat gold field, Australia, in 1854 after the arrest of three of their fellows. It was the climax to their protests against ill treatment by the police, lack of political representation, and the license system. Troops took the stockade, 20 miners and two policemen being killed._  
>  \- The Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable

It was the late summer of 1888, and I had, once again, found myself in my former rooms of 221B Baker Street. My wife was always most accommodating when it came to my increasingly extended periods of time spent with Holmes instead of with her, presumably having many affairs of her own to which she could better attend in my absence. 

At that time it had not been long since the conclusion of the _Boscombe Valley_ case. Only a few days prior the Assizes had acquitted young James McCarthy in the case of his father’s murder; a pronouncement due in no small part to the diligent and dedicated work of Sherlock Holmes. However, the final success of this case, as so often proved apparent, had aroused an ambivalent mood in my friend. Torn between on the one hand elation at the successful resolution and at justice being served, and on the other restlessness and chagrin at the enforced indolence of being between cases, Holmes was walking a tightrope of mental and emotional strain from which I was determined not to see him fall. Thus, my presence at Baker Street, though personally pleasurable I openly admit, was nevertheless predominantly in order that I might keep an eye on him, and to hopefully prove enough of a diversion to keep his brilliant mind from turning to less salubrious forms of distraction.

‘Oh, this is really quite interesting, Holmes,’ I said looking up from the spread of open books laid out on the table before me.

Holmes merely grunted in reply and continued to stare with undirected energy out of the open window at the streets below. 

I pressed on regardless. ‘I thought I should do a little research into the history of the Ballarat goldmines,’ I said, ‘before writing up _The Boscombe Valley Mystery_. Get some historical context.’

‘That isn’t what you are planning on titling it?’ my friend replied, finally dragging his lean, gaunt frame from the window and throwing himself instead into his armchair near the unlit fireplace.

‘What’s wrong with _The Boscombe Valley Mystery_?’ I asked, somewhat irritated by his persistent denigration of my literary efforts but nonetheless pleased to have succeeded in capturing his interest. My pleasure, however, proved to be short lived.

Holmes shrugged, swinging one leg over the arm of his chair and half-reclining in his seat, puffing pipesmoke up towards the ceiling like some tumbledown chimney pot, a perfect picture of apathy. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied with a dismissive wave of his thin, graceful hand. ‘It is as fine a title as any. Call it what you will, it makes no difference to me.’

I frowned, disappointed in myself for failing so spectacularly to retain my companion’s attention. ‘You don’t object to my writing the case up, then?’

Another listless wave of his hand was all I received in reply. 

‘Well, anyway,’ I persisted, ‘that isn’t the interesting bit.’

‘Hm?’

‘As I was saying, I have been brushing up on my Australian history. Though mostly out of curiosity over old John “Blackjack" Turner’s chequered past as he recounted it to us, I must admit. Dubious morality and justice aside, it was quite a remarkable tale, don’t you think?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘You don’t agree?’

‘Highway robbers around the Australian goldmines? You’ll find, my dear Watson, that such examples of mankind are ten-a-penny in the colonies. Very rarely do such cases offer anything of interest. Remarkable?' Holmes barked a cynical laugh. 'No. I should think not.’

‘But a respectable gentleman -- a respectable _seeming_ gentleman, I should say -- like that? In the heart of the south west of England, a rural idyll such as Boscombe? That such a figure should turn out to have such a backstory! Surely even you can see the narrative appeal of a such a tale, Holmes!'

Holmes turned his face toward me. His penetrating grey eyes as they lighted upon me danced with the laconic mischief which, particularly when he was in such a liminal mood as this, filled me in equal parts with hopeful gladness and with wary trepidation. 

‘Ever the romantic, eh Watson?’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘You are always looking for the _drama_ in the piece,’ he said, that lively bite and spark slowly creeping back into his voice. ‘Rather than focusing on that which would prove _instructive_ to the student of criminology, you instead appeal to the insatiable masses and their hunger for all that is sentimental. Sensational. _Romantic_.

‘When the readership of _The Strand_ is predominantly made up of _criminology students_ , Holmes, I will take your suggestions under advisement. Until then, however, your adoring London public seem quite happy with my sentimental nonsense.’

To my great joy and relief, Holmes threw back his head and laughed. ‘Quite possibly. And your readers, they are keen, I suppose, to read a potted account of _The Eureka Rebellion_ as filtered through your own particular pen?’

‘What? How do you know I was thinking to write about that?’

With a sly grin and a flicker upwards of his dark and masterful brow, Holmes nodded at the open book on the table before me. ‘One needn’t be a master of the deductive arts to figure that out, old chap. Clearly your attention has been _quite captivated_ by your study if you have already forgotten what it is you purport to have been reading!’

‘Oh,’ I replied with a frown. ‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I simply hadn’t been aware that _you_ had been reading over my shoulder.’

‘One can hardly fail to notice that which is laid out plainly before them, Watson. In any case, I could have deduced that your attention had been captured by that particular incident in antipodean history even had you not had the page open in front of you for the past half an hour.’

‘I doubt that very much.’

Instead of taking the opportunity to demonstrate his deductive power as I had expected him to do, Holmes wriggled further down into his chair to rest his head on the arm. How a man of his stature could fold himself up into such a small space and remain comfortable I do not know, but comfortable he appeared very much to be.

‘Well, Watson?’

‘What?’

‘What have you learned that is “ _r_ _eally quite interesting_ ”, as you put it?’

‘You want me to tell you?’

‘Would I ask, if I did not? Go ahead, dear fellow. _Play on._ ’

‘I thought perhaps you were about to explain to me how you knew what I was reading about without seeing my books? Or lecture me on what I really ought to be putting in my write-up of this case instead of all of that romantic nonsense?’

Holmes hummed as he took another puff of his pipe. ‘No, no. Not today, Watson. I think today I would rather listen, than lecture, if it is all the same to you.’

‘If you want me to leave, Holmes, you only have to--’

‘No!' he replied quickly -- almost too quickly. 'No. Stay, Watson, please. I-- I must concede that you are quite right in thinking me in need of distraction today, and quite unfit for my own company. Oh, now don’t pretend to be surprised at my noticing. You have hardly been subtle. You’ve been sitting and staring at that locked drawer in my writing desk for most of the afternoon, when you haven’t been staring melancholically at me. So distract me. Regale me of stories of bravery and self-sacrifice in the name of fighting tyranny, as carried out by the miners of Ballarat. Expound your theories regarding the connection of this rebellion to our own Mr John Turner -- although I am afraid you may find yourself somewhat disappointed when you try to marry up the timelines precisely.’

‘Ah! That’s where you are wrong, Holmes!’ I cried exultantly as I flipped back through the pages of my book. ‘I thought so too, as Mr Turner referred to the _early sixties_ as the approximate date he fell into crime. _But_ it is not unreasonable to believe he had been in the area before turning to crime, and why would such a man go to Ballarat if not for the gold mines? And therein lay some significant clues to the man’s psychology, you _see_ …’

I continued on in this manner for at least an hour, detailing to Holmes my meaningless and insignificant discoveries. He listened all the while, occasionally laughing aloud at my wanton enthusiasm and at what he would describe as my more _recherche_ theories regarding our former client’s father’s possible connection to the gold miners’ rebellion, and other such romantic nonsense. Things which, whilst interesting to me, and of intrinsic humanistic and historical worth, were surely little more to Holmes than non-essential clutter crowding the attic of his mind. And yet he listened to me attentively. 

I can’t say that I convinced him on any count, any more than I can say that I truly convinced myself. Certainly none of that day’s study ever made its way into print. But by the time Mrs Hudson broke into our companionable sanctum in order to light the fire and to ask us whether we should be dining in or out that evening, Holmes’ spirits had found some degree of equanimity. When he picked up his violin after we had eaten, he forewent Wagner for Paginini and played a sweet and soulful serenade rich with an expression and emotion indefinably and indisputably his own. As I watched him, his hawklike profile softly illuminated by the moonlight from one side and the firelight from the other, I couldn’t help but marvel at the great _heart_ of this great detective, so often forgotten in the shadow of his great mind. And I couldn’t help but believe that whilst I may be of little use to his unparalleled mind, I may be of some small service to his equally unparalleled heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I wouldn't have anticipated my first foray into posting Sherlock Holmes fan fiction being based on a prompt for _The Eureaka Stockade_ , but there you go.


End file.
